


Renegades in the Ring

by pilindiel



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Circus, Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, JeanMarco Gift Exchange, M/M, Mutual Pining, Period Typical Attitudes, Pyrophobia, Sword Swallower!Jean, Trick Rider!Marco
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-25 18:23:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17126447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pilindiel/pseuds/pilindiel
Summary: The soles of his shoes gave out long ago, scraping the delicate, soft skin of his feet raw, skinny knees bruised by unforgiving cobbles.  He takes to stealing to survive, either too proud or too stubborn to beg, and every day is a struggle.  Every night the fear creeps in and he wonders whether he’ll live long enough to be the age his parents were.He’s eleven when the planes of fate shift the world under his feet.A circus AU (+ something extra) for the incredible MonoclePony.





	Renegades in the Ring

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MonoclePony](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MonoclePony/gifts).



> The circus collects the outsiders like a flame tempts moths.
> 
> \- Laura Lam, Pantomime

It’s impossible now to remember the age Jean was when he lost his parents, but he was young; barely old enough to walk.  There’s so little of them left for Jean to picture - he can’t recall the sound of his mother’s voice or the cadence of his father’s walk - but the fire that engulfed their home, the smoke that stung his lungs...Jean doesn’t think that will ever fade from his memory.

The soles of his shoes gave out long ago, scraping the delicate, soft skin of his feet raw, skinny knees bruised by unforgiving cobbles.  He takes to stealing to survive, either too proud or too stubborn to beg. Every day is a struggle, every night the fear creeps in and he wonders whether he’ll live long enough to be the age his parents were.

He’s eleven when the planes of fate shift the world under his feet.

It’s June in Jinae, humid and sticky even through the overcast.  Jean leans back against the brick wall of an abandoned building, thick cotton shirt clinging to his too-visible ribs while the washed out stone cooks his back.

He’s not on a busy street by any means - Jinae’s populace knows better than to associate with beggars.  Though Jean refuses to call himself as such, no one gives him a passing glance. No one stares.

No one saves.

That’s why, when Jean is being poached on the humid pavement like an egg, he’s surprised when he’s greeted by a boy - probably no older than himself - with a smattering of freckles and a bright smile that dulls the sun.

Jean looks up, golden eyes wide and blinking, and the boy just grins a little wider.  He’s wearing bright clothes, Jean notices, with a blue, sequined vest that looks too big for his bony shoulders and striking red coat that dwarfs his body.  The boy is accompanied by a severe looking man - short in stature and clearly short in temper, his lips clamped loosely around a cigarette.

“Marco,” the man barks, “Stop bothering strangers.”

The boy, **_Marco_ **, turns to his companion and huffs, hands on his thin hips.  “Levi,” Marco admonishes in the way only a child can, “Didn’t Erwin say we needed more work hands?  Who better than someone who needs it?”

Levi billows smoke out of his nostrils, ash falling onto the dirty street below his polished boots as he considers it.

“Brat,” he says, addressing Jean, “Can you stand?”

Jean nods numbly, and that seems to be as good an answer as any.

Marco holds out his hand, fingers wiggling invitingly.  “Then come on,” he says around a smile.

Bewildered and against his better judgement, Jean takes Marco’s hand and lets the strange boy haul him to his feet.

With a grin, Marco turns and marches their small troupe forward.  

“We’re gonna make you a star!” he proclaims.

Jean’s fingers tingle long after Marco lets them go.

Before he knows it they’ve left the smog of the city behind and Jean is ushered past rows and rows of train cars, all decorated with colors that must have been bold and brash back before the elements took over.  Swathes of gold and red, blues and oranges and greens that have been lost to time and unkempt adorne the sides of the train. Jean would get lost in the excitement, the foreignness of it all were it not for the long strides of Levi behind him and the proud trot of Marco in front.

A series of tents litter the area but the largest and most colorful looms over them all, striped with a vibrant red and pale yellow. Jean nearly trips as he gawks at it, the trepidation giving way to childlike glee.

His parents took him to the circus once long ago.  There were bright flashes of lights and sound, excited screams and painted faces.  Jean barely remembers it, but the thought brings comfort to the nervous churning of his stomach.

The train car they stop in front of is relatively plain in comparison to the rest; painted black with a calligraphied “ _Smith Bros. Management_ ” over the handle in gold leaf.

“I gotta get ready for the show,” Marco says regretfully as he steps away, “But stop by my tent before it starts, okay?”  With a small wave he’s gone, scampering down towards the impending bigtop, and Jean is left feeling just the tiniest bit colder.

Levi tuts and throws the door open like he’s done it thousands of times before, tossing Jean inside the dark, musty room with a shove to his shoulder.

The dim flicker of an oil lamp is the only light source aside from the now-opened door, and Jean blinks slowly as his eyes adjust to the gloom.

There’s a large desk against the far wall, papers strewn across it, and atop it sits a golden plaque with “ _Ringmaster_ ” proudly written across it.

The ringmaster himself is a large man.  His chest is broad beneath the bright red of his waistcoat and his eyes are so blue they’re like ice.  Jean feels exposed, like an open wound, and he shifts under the scrutiny of that stare.

Levi shuffles Jean forward and the ringmaster’s cool, calculating stare flicks to him instead - a silent conversation going on between them.  Jean finally feels like he can take a breath.

“Levi,” the ringmaster says, “What is this?”

“A new employee, Erwin,” Levi replies flippantly, taking a long drag of his cigarette.

“Oh?  And what makes you want to work at our circus, Mr….?”

“Jean,” he croaks, “Jean...Kirschstein.”

“Mr. Kirschstein,” he hums, “What brings you into my office?”

Jean swallows thickly but stands up to his full height, meeting that frozen stare with a fire of his own.  “Well,” he starts, “When a fella comes up to ya and offers you a job, what kinda person would I be to say no?”

Erwin’s lips twitch upward.  Levi snorts.

For a moment, Jean is horrified he’s made a mistake, but then Erwin leans back in his chair, fingers steepled.

“Levi,” he instructs, just a tad softer and more cordial, “Take our new recruit for a tour.”

Levi’s steel eyes land on Erwin and he purposefully takes the butt of his cigarette out from between his lips, leaning across the ringmaster’s oaken desk to ash it out right in front of his grinning face.

If Jean didn’t know any better, he’d say Erwin was smiling just the tiniest bit wider.

“Come with me,” Levi says sharply, storming out.  Jean follows, hoping his heart isn’t as loud as it feels against his ribcage.

Levi is most certainly not a tour guide.  He’s quick and passive in his descriptions, stride long and rapid, and Jean needs to jog to keep up with him.  It’s a whirlwind of information all the same. The animal cages are past the chutes, the equipment is stored in _that_ car over _there_ and kept in _this_ space during stops, the performers tents are _there_ , and all the while Jean’s head is spinning, struggling to catch up with the hurried steps of his new mentor.

Still, Jean can’t hide his exhilaration - everything is colors and magic and mysticism - there are people in sparkling outfits stretching and contorting their bodies in strange shapes.  Lions are roaring in their cages and he can hear the sharp whinnying of horses. Everything smells like manure and sweat and **_life_ ** and Jean is jittery with excitement as they enter what feels like an endless supply of yellow and red tents.

They duck under yet another flap and Jean is overcome with the scent of perfumes and kerosene.  This tent is bustling, people in bright outfits flitting from tables and sauntering over to carefully placed equipment.  They’re all sparkling in one way or another; glitter and striking makeup on their faces while they prance around in twinkling clothes.

 **_This must be the performers tent,_ ** Jean muses as Levi nudges him forward.

They round a corner and find Marco, sitting atop a chair that’s just barely big enough for him, fixing a black and white tie in the mirror in front of him.

Marco’s entire expression brightens when he spots them and **_oh,_ ** it does terrible things to Jean’s heart.

Jean wants to linger, to see Marco’s process and ask all the questions buzzing in his head, but Levi already seems irritable and the last thing Jean wants is to give him a reason to kick him back out on the streets.

He offers Marco a cheeky grin as they pass instead and asks, "You puttin' glitter on your face, too?"

Marco smiles warmly and Jean’s entire stomach somersaults.  "Everybody's gotta shine in the ring, Jean."

* * *

The work is arduous.  He’s fed the first full meal he’s had in years, but his hands are cracked and bleeding by the end of it.  Shoveling manure, baling hay, making minor repairs on costumes and set pieces, it’s all a whirl of nervous, frenzied energy.  Though Jean is dazed by the end of it, the accomplishment that swells in his chest is definitely worth the throbbing of his hands.

The show starts with a crescendo of music and lights and Jean lingers by the front flap of the tent, letting the magic wash over him.

It’s **_dazzling_ **.  People swinging from ropes and beams high in the air that leave the audience gasping with the thrill.  Ferocious lions, teeth bared and dripping, being tamed with nothing but a smile and a stool. Colorfully painted clowns tripping over their own shoes, tossing pies and performing simple tricks that make everyone laugh.

It’s all dramatic, invigorating.  Jean is grinning by the time the horses come into view and his heart leaps into his throat when he sees who’s riding them.

Seeing him in the tent, Jean doesn’t think he’s real at first.

Barely a foot taller but the size of a giant, Marco draws everyone’s attention as soon as he enters the ring.  He’s smiling - teeth white and perfect - and standing on the backs of two enormous horses, one foot on each. The reins are tight in his hands but he makes it look effortless as the lights glide over the sparkling blue of his vest.

Jean can’t count the number of tricks he does - jumping on and off his mountain of a horse mid-ride, standing on the back of his beast with one leg extended up with the ease of an angel.  Everything he manages has the audience delighted and screaming.

He’s a star.  Shining. Stunning.  Awe-inspiring.

One of the clowns, a woman with bright-red hair cropped around her shoulders, drops a handkerchief off her platform and mock sobs into her enormous gloved hands.  The audience laughs, but then Marco, center ring and radiant, stuns them all.

With a flourish he hooks his leg in the stirrup and slips out of the saddle, held by nothing but his leg as he leans off the edge of the horse.  The crowd gasps as Marco’s head inches dangerously close to the ground, but Marco is beaming. He scoops up the handkerchief in his outreached hand, sliding back into the saddle like it didn’t even break a sweat.

People in the crowd are cheering and Marco stands triumphant on the back of his steed as he approaches the clown’s stand, giving her gloved hand a kiss before brandishing the fabric, much to the audience’s delight.

Jean’s heart is pounding even after the crowd disperses.  He wants to jump with how boundless his energy feels, chest aching with something he can’t quite place.  He imagines himself in that ring too, enchanting groups of onlookers with a grin and a wink.

Still, Jean does as he’s told.  Unhooks ladders, unties ropes that cut into his palms, sprinkles hay on the dirt smeared ground.  He’s helping Levi roll up the tightrope when Marco trots over to him, glitter smeared across the freckles splashed on his cheeks.

“Didja see me, Jean?” he asks.

Jean blinks, flush crawling up his neck.  “Like I could miss ya.”

Marco beams, and the ache in Jean’s chest raises tenfold.

“That’s what I like ta hear!” Marco proclaims, smile so wide Jean can see the dimples in his cheeks. “It’s why I’m here, after all.” 

It almost feels like a secret, the way Marco leans into his space.  He’s blinding, and the sparkle in Marco’s eyes is stronger than any star Jean has ever seen.  “Someday, I’m gonna be a headliner,” he says with quiet resolution.

“Is it really that important to ya?” Jean asks.

“It’s all I’ve ever wanted,” Marco admits softly.

“You’ll make it,” Jean finds himself saying, heart cartwheeling in his chest, “I know ya will.”

Marco’s fingers curl around his wrist, eyes shining, but as he moves to inspect Jean’s hands it shoots electric, white-hot sparks through his veins.  Jean recoils, hissing through his teeth as he pulls his hand to his chest.

“I’m sorry!” Marco exclaims.

“It’s fine,” Jean placates, “Just - ”

But Marco cuts him off, pulling a tin out of his coat pocket.  With a pop he uncaps it, holding it out. The salve is sticky, sickly smelling and vile in color, but Marco’s smile is appeasing and his voice is soft.

“May I?” he asks.

Jean bites the inside of his cheek, but nods.  Gingerly, Marco takes Jean’s hand and holds it palm up.  

They’re quite a sight - the lines on his palm are cracked, bleeding and raw already, and the tell-tale swell of fledgling callouses are already forming on his skin.

Marco frowns, fingers dipping into the cream and applies it before Jean can protest.

The stinging is immediate and Jean grits his teeth, breathing sharply through his nose to stop the cry that crawls up his throat.

Marco’s eyes flick nervously to Jean’s face.

“You’ve never done work like this before, have ya?” Marco asks quietly.

Jean snorts. “ ‘s that obvious?”

Marco’s lips twitch into a smile, but he shakes his head.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, “It’s just…”  Concern pinches between Marco’s brows, tongue between his teeth.  “I think yer hands are too pretty to be cleanin’ tents.” Jean’s entire body ignites, ears burning from the compliment, and even with the stinging salve Marco applies to his cracked palms, Jean feels himself smile.

“Guess I gotta get an act, huh?” he murmurs.

Levi startles them both when he speaks up.

“Well **_brat_ **, if you’re looking for an act,” he drawls, “We’ve needed a fire-breather.”

The words lodge in Jean’s throat and he can’t swallow around them, the smoke already clogging his lungs.

“Fire?”

It’s a shock to his system.  A slap across his skin. He sees the charred remains of their library - the musty, old books now crackling and consumed by flames and the shelves break and split under the weight of them.  Everything reeks of smoke. It stings Jean’s lungs, coils around his throat and suffocates him. The fire licks towards him, beckoning like thousands of burning hands, pulling at his clothes and screaming out his name but Jean can’t move.

**_Can’t breathe._ **

He’s shaking, crying, and the room spins while his parents are -

“Jean?!”

And then he crashes back down, head throbbing.

Marco’s hand is tight around his skinny wrist, grounding him with the pain, and Jean forces himself to look at the dust ridden floor.  It’s covered in damp straw and grass, earthy smelling and sharp, and he focuses on that as he swallows around the cry winding up his throat.  He digs his fingernails into his palms, cold sweat sliding down his back, and lets out a shaking breath.

“No fires,” he murmurs.

Levi lets out a slow breath through his nose.  He nods.

“Note taken.”

* * *

Jean is fifteen when he gets his first performance costume.  It’s Arabian inspired with a soft, willowy vest that’s so blue it’s practically purple, and loose trousers that are cinched tightly around his waist with a bright orange sash.  Being bare-chested leaves him feeling just the slightest bit exposed, but there’s something exhilarating about getting to finally practice in costume, and the churning nerves in his gut are easily replaced by excitement.  It helps too that the breeze that blows through the tent is warm and calming. Sina always has mild springs and Jean is content to smell the blossoming wildflowers of the countryside over the overcrowded, sickening smell of the inner-city.

Levi circles around him, tugging lightly here and there at the fabric, and Jean feels suspiciously like carrion being circled by a vulture.  

Seemingly appeased, Levi nods and pulls Jean’s rapier out of its sheath, holding it out to him wordlessly.

Jean takes a breath.  Nods.

The metal is cool against his skin as he wraps his fingers around the hilt and he has to remind himself to relax.

 _If you’re too tense, you’ll stab yourself in the throat,_ Levi’s words echo back to him, _And I’ll have to toss your corpse out on the tracks between stops._

Jean realizes too late he’s gathered up an audience.  He can see Connie and Eren nudging each other by bales of hay as he gets into position, their twin bright orange and black costumes a stark contrast to the gentle, muted colors around them while Mikasa and Sasha stop their stretching for a moment to see what the commotion is about.

There’s a low whickering from behind him too - the tell-tale thump of hooves on grass - and Jean bites the inside of his cheek to stop the racing of his heart.

He tilts his head back, hyper-extending his neck, and reminds himself to breathe.  Tongue moved out of the way, he focuses instead on the ceiling of the tent - the red and yellow burlap faded with time and elements - and he doesn’t even realize the sword is halfway down his throat until he hears the excited gasps around him.  Electrified, Jean slides it the rest of the way down, keeping it lubricated with his saliva until the ornate hilt taps lightly against the front of his teeth.

Slowly, he lets go of the and extends his hands out to his sides.

There’s clapping from at least six pairs of hands and Jean preens.

He’s just about to reach back up when he hears the unmistakable trill of one Sasha Braus, speaking to someone behind him and just out of sight.

“I bet swords aren’t the **_only_ ** thing he’s good at swallowing.”

The laughter is uproarious and Jean’s throat immediately seizes up, his whole face on fire.  Like swallowing a mouthful of food that’s just too big, Jean starts to choke and Levi is at his side in moments, helping him ease the protruding metal free.

Even though the sword is gone, the discomfort isn’t and Jean covers his mouth as he struggles to regain his breath through fits of wheezing, painful coughs.

“Just spit if you can’t handle it, Jean!” Connie chimes in.  Sasha’s laughing so hard she’s doubled over, holding her stomach, and Jean tries to hastily wipe the tears from his eyes.  Flushed with embarrassment and struggling to catch his breath, he can’t even muster the energy to be angry.

Thankfully, Levi is furious enough for both of them.

He clears his throat - short, clipped - and the silence that follows is immediate.

Levi does not bark.  He does not yell. “Braus.  Springer.” The fear in their expressions are matching and instantaneous.  The steel in Levi’s eyes darkens. He gestures to the entrance to the big top with a flick of his cigarette.  “A **_word_ **.”

Jean watches them trudge outside, disappearing behind the curtain of fabric into the afternoon sun, but a familiar, soft whinny calls out to him and he turns around.

Titan is a beast of a creature - Jean notices that almost every time he lays eyes on the friesian thoroughbred - and his muscles ripple under his inky coat as he kicks his hoof idly into the ground.  His eyes are large, understanding, and if Jean knew any better, he’d swear he was looking at him with just a smidge of concern.

Marco was always dwarfed next to him, but just like everyone else, he’s started to grow a bit more into himself.  His gangly limbs have gained significant muscle and the bold, sparkling red vest he wears over his white cotton shirt sits tightly across his chest.  His legs are longer too, fitting much better into his khakis and work boots.

Gently nickering, Titan nudges Marco’s shoulder with his large head and whatever spell was keeping Marco so still is broken.  He chuckles softly, leading Titan over with a quiet: “You know, you can always walk over to him **_yourself_ **.”

Unfortunately, whatever silence overtook the tent is shortly ruined by Jean’s corporal bane of existence.

“So, Marco,” Eren Jeager calls, “Do you think our resident hot-head here has done enough to make an impression?”  He’s grinning in a way that makes Jean beyond confused, but oh, the way it makes Marco flush is so worth whatever he was implying.

Marco smiles - honest in the way only he can be - and nods.  “Yeah, I reckon he can make a decent name for himself.”

Jean’s heart skips and he can’t stop the way his lips twist into a grin.

“Ya better watch yerself,” Jean teases, “If I do well enough, I may just be more popular than you.”

Marco bites his lower lip to stop the spread of his smile, eyes flicking down to the ground before meeting Jean’s.

“I mean,” he drawls, “You do have a tendency to stand out.”

It should be a joke - Jean knows Marco must have meant it as one - but there’s a nervous, excited fluttering in his chest he can’t shake.

“I’m going to take that as a compliment,” he says.

Marco meets his stare, copper to gold, and Jean’s heart stumbles.

“Good,” Marco hums, “It was meant as one.”

The sincerity behind Marco’s eyes makes Jean’s ears burn and he breaks their contact, rubbing the back of his neck.  He turns to Titan instead, who’s nostrils flare pink with interest.

“How d’ya put up with this everyday?” Jean asks.

Titan whinnys, ears flicking forward in friendliness before he nuzzles into Jean’s waiting hands.

Marco laughs softly, stroking Titan’s neck.

“I’m not as nice to ‘im as ya may think.”

Jean scoffs.  “Bull,” he smirks, “I know for a fact ya got sugar cubes in your pocket right now.”

“Jean!” Marco exclaims, scandalized, “Don’t tell **_him_ ** that!”  But it’s too late - Titan’s picked up on the words and his ears twitch.  He swivels his large head and starts nudging Marco’s body with his snout, snuffling excitedly at the hidden treats.

The laughter they share is companionable, and something about it just feels **_right_ **.  Comfortable.  Jean’s chest warms and he wonders, for a fleeting second, just how many more of these moments they will get to share.

He hopes it’s a lot.

Marco’s hand finds its way to Jean’s forearm, reassuring and gentle, and they meet each other’s flushed and breathless smiles.

“You look really amazing in that,” Marco tells him honestly.

“Yeah?” Jean breathes.

Marco’s stare is like fire, dragging down his body and burning his skin.  He can almost feel how Marco’s eyes outline the contours of developing muscles on his abdomen and chest, trailing across his skin like he’s trying to memorize every stray inch of him.

Jean feels exposed again, but the nervousness this time is red-hot and invigorating.  Breath short, he watches with rapt attention how Marco shakily licks his lips.

“Yeah.”

The snap of Jean’s name brings the world back into sharp, startling focus.  He stumbles back like he’s been shocked and clears his throat.

Levi is standing at the entrance to the tent, holding the flap open, his expression unreadable.  “We still have practice.”

Jean’s eyes widen, flustered, and he ducks his head as he follows Levi outside.

Dusk is just settling on Sina - the tent is situated on a hill outside of town, and Jean can just see the sun start to dip behind stained brick buildings and smokestacks of the city proper, painting the sky in beautiful watercolors of purple and orange.

Levi stops suddenly, and his voice is so low and clipped it makes Jean stumble.  “What do you think you’re doing?”

Jean blinks, bewildered, but the severity of Levi’s tone makes his stomach churn.  “What’re ya talkin’ about?”

“You and Bodt,” Levi spits, “I’m not stupid, brat.”  Levi has called him _brat_ so often now it’s almost an endearment, but right now it’s a slap in the face and Jean is winded by it.

Bile burns up Jean’s throat.  He feels nauseous, dizzy, and he takes a shaking step back like he can shield himself from Levi’s words.

What could Levi possibly be talking about?  He and Marco are friends. That’s all they’ve ever been.  Right? Jean’s stomach sinks, protest thick on his tongue, but the words never come.

Levi gives him a long stare and Jean feels those steel eyes deep in his soul, reading secrets Jean doesn’t even know the words to.

How is he supposed to describe the way he ignites at Marco’s laughter?  The way Marco’s smile makes his heart stutter out of time? The way Marco makes him feel safe, makes him feel **_wanted_ **?

Levi strikes up a match and lights another cigarette.

Jean blames the tears pricking his eyes on the smell.

Levi sighs.  “If not for your sake, at least back off for his.”  The words curl around Jean’s lungs, squeezing the air from his throat.  “He’s got big aspirations, right?” A slow drag of his cigarette, a stream of smoke.  “A headliner.”

 **_A star_ **.  He told Jean as much before, when they were both so young and ambitious and…

And he will never take that away from Marco.

Tears burn in Jean’s eyes and he swallows, but the lump in his throat just won’t leave.  He feels rend, torn asunder and chopped up like the chum he used to see in fish markets. He almost envies the guts of those fish - surely dying would be less painful than this.

“Whaddo I do?” he croaks.

The silence is weighted and agonizing.

“Be his friend,” Levi says, “Be there for him.  But don’t want more.” He looks off, distant, and Jean can see age and pain etched on the creases between his brows.  “Even in the underbelly of society like us, there’s still things you shouldn’t do.”

Jean sucks in a sharp breath, but it doesn’t reach his lungs.

He storms out before Levi can see the few tears that manage to spill out.  There’s no destination, no trajectory. Jean just walks as far as he’s able, sucking in hissing breaths through his teeth to stave off the inevitable, building breakdown.

He should be stronger than this.  Marco deserves stronger than this.

A hand cups his elbow, firm but reassuring, and Jean whips around.  

It’s Marco.

**_It’s always Marco._ **

“Hey,” Marco murmurs, eyes full of concern,  “You okay?”

Jean’s throat is tighter than it’s ever felt and he steps out of Marco’s grip, lamenting the warmth as soon as the dusk air hits his bare skin.  If Marco sees the tears before Jean rubs a frustrated knuckle into his eye sockets, he doesn’t comment.

"Just…” Jean clears his throat, grits his teeth.  “Levi getting on me for ' **_goofing off_ **’.”  It’s not a complete lie, and thankfully Marco buys it.

"Sorry,” he murmurs, “It must have been my fault."

Jean shakes his head.  The ache in his chest is only dulled by the timid, endeared murmur of his heart.

"Impossible."

They share a smile.

Marco’s hand finds Jean’s shoulder and Jean is captured by him, drawn to the warmth in his expression and the gentle curve of his smile.  He wants to drown in it, let Marco destroy him and put him back together, constructing a person who deserves the way Marco is looking at him.

"Levi's just hard on you because he wants you to succeed," Marco tells him, "We both have big dreams, Jean."  He squeezes the muscle and Jean’s heart along with it. "He just doesn't want you to lose sight of that."

Right.   **_Big dreams_ **.

Jean swallows thickly, blinking away tears, and shrugs off Marco’s hand.  "Yeah," he mutters, giving Marco a watery smile. He can’t meet his eyes anymore - doesn’t feel he’s allowed to.

With a clearing of his throat, Jean gives Marco a half-hearted wave.  “I’ll uh...I’ll see you later,” he murmurs, head pounding, “Got more practice to do.”

Marco’s affirmation is lost to the burning of Jean’s face and the ripping of his heart.

* * *

They celebrate Marco’s 20th birthday with moonshine and whiskey, and the excitement and congratulations flow up and down the crowded train cars.  Marco is beaming, laughing politely as people offer their praises and gifts, but when Jean gives him a smile and a bottle swiped from Erwin’s office to share, Jean is positive that smile is so bright it could melt the snow off mountaintops.

The cool night air does wonders for Jean’s head, but the squeeze of Marco’s fingers does little to help his heart.  Marco leads him to the caboose where they clamour together onto the roof, nothing but the wind and the gentle chugging of the train to accompany them.

It’s peaceful.  The metal is still warm from the fallen sun, not yet succumbed to the chill of the night, and Jean feels light and airy when Marco wobbles into a seat beside him.

Their shoulders brush, a jolt like static, and Jean has to swallow the way his heart staccatos.

Marco just leans back, palms splayed out behind him, as he looks up at the tapestry of stars.

They’re out of their costumes for the night - Marco in overalls and a khaki shirt with Jean in corduroy pants and blue cotton - and it just feels so natural.  There’s still some splattering of glitter on Marco’s cheeks and arms, leftovers from the show earlier that night, and they make his freckles sparkle under the waning moonlight.

Marco’s shirt stretches tight against his muscles as he shifts and Jean is fascinated by how much he’s grown.  How they’ve **_both_ ** grown.

“So,” Jean drawls, holding out the stolen bottle of scotch, “How does it feel being an adult?”

Marco rolls his eyes and snatches the liquor, taking a hearty swig.  Their fingers brush and Jean feels the warmth from it all the way down into his soul.

“It don’t feel real,” Marco admits, swirling the bottle pensively, “Never thought I’d stay with Smith Brothers this long.”

Jean looks at him, puzzled.  “Yeah? What didja think you’d be doin’?”

Marco smiles, sheepish, and picks at one of the fraying threads of his denim.  “Remember what I said? Back when ya first joined us?”

Jean nods.  Like he could ever forget.  Marco chews his lip, cheeks flushing a little.

“I think I changed my tune,” he muses, handing the bottle back over.

The scotch is bitter, burning down his throat, but he swallows it all the same and gestures for Marco to continue.

“I think...I don’t wanna be famous anymore,” he murmurs, reaching for the bottle.

“What **_do_ ** ya want?”  

Marco’s hand surrounds Jean’s, fingers warm and eyes warmer, and Jean’s entire world sharpens, pinpoints to the way Marco’s thumb brushes his knuckles.

“I wanna be happy.”

Marco’s fingers tighten around Jean’s, squeezing the neck of the bottle, and Jean’s chest lurches.

The way Marco swallows, the way he stares, makes Jean feel self-conscious and exposed, but he doesn’t look away.  

That was never an option.

Marco inches closer, palm coming up to cup Jean’s elbow, and the contact alone has Jean’s blood running hot.

The space between them shrinks.  Warms. There’s so little space between them Jean can feel the way Marco says his name, a rasping puff of air caught in the space between their lips.

Jean’s heart is thudding off-beat in his chest.  He searches Marco’s expression almost frantically, trying to find footholds in the torrent behind Marco’s eyes, the longing in his expression.

It’s too much.  Jean’s breath doesn’t sink fully in his lungs, stuck somewhere between the warmth building in his chest and the anxious tightening of his throat, and he can’t stop the slight tilt of his head or the quiet urging of his heart.

There’s a loneliness in Marco’s gaze, a desperation.  Jean wants to reach up and smooth his thumbs over the strain in Marco’s expression, to ease the pressure.  

It would be so easy to bridge the distance, Jean realizes, so easy to pour all his reassurances into that simple, sweet gesture, to bury himself in the heat that’s crawling through his body from the press of Marco’s fingers.

But Jean is frozen and hopes, **_begs_ ** for Marco’s next move.

Marco murmurs Jean’s name, a whisper of air, and leans in.

The train lurches, whistle blowing, and Jean jumps back like he’s been shocked.

“It’s...uh…” Jean swallows, shakes his head. “It’s...getting late.”

“Yeah,” Marco agrees distantly.  Distracted. Jean can’t look at him.

He staggers to his feet and forces some clarity into his throat.  “We uh...Should go to bed.” He bites the inside of his cheek, tries to focus on something, **_anything_ **, but his heart is racing too quickly, world turning too fast.  He feels sick.

“Jean, I - ”  Marco’s timid, confused, and the crack in his voice lacerates Jean’s lungs.

“Goodnight, Marco.”

When Jean stumbles back to his car, he’s unsteady on his feet and not just from the alcohol.  He feels flushed, overheated, and his heart is pattering dangerously out of time.

What was that?  What **_was_ ** that?

The sharpness of Levi’s cigarette is grounding to Jean’s spinning head.  Levi leans against the wooden doorframe, watching as Jean struggles with his shoes and wipes the rest of the glitter from his skin, and he blows out smoke through his nose, saying nothing.  

He doesn’t have to - Jean feels the piercing stare of those eyes, hears those words echoing in his skull.

**_There’s still things you shouldn’t do._ **

He’s thankful for the liquor in his system - it helps stave off the ache in his chest long enough for him to fall asleep.

* * *

Delays and malfunctions in the ordinarily smooth order of the circus was commonplace - the Smith’s Brothers, though popular, always took the more circuitous routes to get to where they needed.  It was cheaper, according to Erwin, but it also meant they would always arrive late in the evening, giving them plenty of time to set up and prepare for the following morning.

After all, there was nothing more exciting to a child than waking up to a shining yellow and red big-top poking over the rooftops first thing in the morning.

But Trost is a rugged, wooded area, and with the heavy rains the last couple of months as summer turned to autumn, it makes the trip agonizingly slow.  Jean can’t remember if they’ve ever had to stop so many times to clear the tracks of fallen trees.

They miss their first stop and it really should have tipped them off - a canceled show always means bad luck.

Nothing is more menacing than hearing the beginning, excitable horns of **_Stars and Stripes Forever_ ** during a performance.  Jean’s certain Sousa never meant for it to be a warning cry - but it was adopted by circuses across the world to notify the other performers and personnel that something was amiss.

Not that anyone needed to hear the trombones blare to notice the fire.  Smoke billows from the southwest sidewall of the tent, near the bleachers, and the crackling of it joins in the cacophony of screams and fear.

Throngs of panicked bodies push past Jean.  Erwin stands in the center ring, trying to urge the audience to remain calm, but he’s lost to the sea of hysteria weaving through the crowd, his normally booming voice drowned out.

It curdles Jean’s blood and his mind is flighty, panicked.  Dread settles deep in him and he shoves crowds and frightened patrons out of his way, curses under his breath as his heavy steps lead him further and further away.

Sweat beads down the back of Jean’s neck, chilling despite the heat surrounding him.

Like a shock of electricity through his system, Jean watches as the paraffin wax that waterproofs the tent catches and sends the roof aflame, dripping down from the ceiling like molten rain.  

Jean’s ears are full of white noise, whole body shaking.  The smoke fills his lungs as he gasps, flooding his system, stinging his eyes.  

He’s choking.  He knows he needs to move, but all he has are the tears burning his eyes and the horror before him.

It’s just like before, and he’s shutting down.

The smoke, his vision overcome with flames.

Can’t breathe.

Jean spluttering, crying, gasping.  Black coiling through his skin and seizing up his muscles.

**_Can’t breathe._ **

Marco’s shouting splits the panic.  Jean turns, heartbeat loud in his ears and tears streaming down his soot-stained cheeks, and everything is deafening quiet and too loud all at once.  Marco is a blur of red and gray against a backdrop of orange and the pressure on Jean’s shoulders is suddenly very warm and very real.

He looks up into the etched perfection of Marco’s face, and before he can even speak, Marco is hauling him to his feet, shouting things Jean can’t process.  It’s like he’s speaking through glass - Jean can see him so clearly, but he can’t hear a word.

Something inside his stomach is doing jumps and flips, punching Jean in the gut, stretching his lungs like taffy.  He sweats, shakes, tries to remember what breathing felt like.

But Marco grabs his wrist and Jean is reminded of dusty streets and worn out shoes as Marco drags him outside into the night.

The sun is long gone but the moon and stars are obscured with dark smoke, billowing its foul smell into the night.  The blazing, blinding fire dances where the tent stood, engulfing the paraffin wax covered fabric like tissue paper, immediate and all-consuming.

Jean’s feet sink into soft dirt, sweat rolling in waves up the back of his neck, but Marco’s grip is tight and grounding as he leads him up the hill to the rest of their troupe.  Levi spots them first and Jean visibly sees him let out a sigh of relief. Titan is restless next to him, dancing on his front hooves the moment he sees them crest over the hill, and he tugs insistently on his reins.

With a sharp trumpet, Titan wrenches out of Levi’s loose grip and trots to them, nudging Marco with his snout once he gets close.  His large eyes fix on Jean, ears flicking forward, and Jean lets out a shaky laugh as Titan chews affectionately on his vest.

“ ‘M fine,” Jean promises, patting Titan’s neck.  Neither he nor Marco comment on how Jean has to lay his whole weight on Marco’s shoulder to remain upright.

At least the cool, autumn air floods Jean’s lungs easier the further away they get, even though the oxygen hit makes everything spin.

Erwin is standing on something Jean can’t see and he address the party, but Jean’s brain is mush, his heart still hammering loudly in his chest.  

Snippets of what Erwin is saying make it through the haze - _glad everyone is safe_ , _animals are alright_ , _hotel nearby_ \- but the rest is lost, billowing in the wind with the rest of the smoke.

Jean grinds the heel of his palms into his eyes forcefully, takes a steadying breath.  Marco’s eyes fly to him immediately, squeezing his wrist, and Jean offers him a watery, shaky smile.

Marco returns it.

The rain starts slow.  A gentle splattering of raindrops that opens up for the clouds, drenching  them down to their bones, sequins and shirts plastered against too-warm skin.

It’s incredibly welcomed.

Marco is shivering as he walks up to the hotel clerk, dark hair stuck to his forehead, but his grip around Jean’s wrist remains firm and his face is drawn and determined.

Jean hears snippets of their conversation - _one bed_ , _key_ , and _upstairs_ \- and he’s glad Marco is aware enough to agree and lead Jean down the hall and up the narrow steps.

They pass Levi and Erwin on their way to their room.  They’re deep in conversation, voices low and tones hushed.  Exhaustion is written all over Erwin’s face, but Levi says something that gets him to smile, his hands cupped in Erwin’s much larger ones.

The small twitch of Levi’s lips is the last thing Jean sees before Marco leads them into their room, the old cedar door closing with a creak and a click before bathing them both in darkness.

It’s certainly not the worst hotel Jean has been in.  The wood on the floor is faded and chipped and the intricate wallpaper is curled at the corners.  But there’s a sturdy-looking writer’s desk with a matching chair too, and the bed looks large enough to hold both of them relatively comfortably.

Jean can’t even comprehend **_that_ **part yet, but he fails to stop the dull ache in his chest all same.

Marco still hasn’t let go of his wrist.  His breathing is sharp, eyes glassy and unfocused, expression pinched, and Jean is suddenly hyper aware of Marco shaking.

“It’s gone,” Marco murmurs, breath hiccuping in his chest as he forces a laugh, “It’s all **_gone_ **.”

Panic rises in Jean’s throat and when Marco drops his hand, he feels the loss deep in his soul.  Marco’s scrubs a shaking hand down his face and for the first time in the many years Jean has known him, Marco looks close to breaking.

He remembers their hushed conversations, Marco wrapping bandages around blistered hands and choked laughter, and realization hits him like a boat hitting an iceberg - freezing and destructive.

No one has a home to go back to.  This was it.

Marco’s shoulders shake and Jean has no idea how he’s holding himself up.  God knows Jean wouldn’t be.

“H-hey, Marco - ” he croaks, taking a step into Marco’s space.  Marco’s eyes are red, puffy and irritated from unshed tears, and he looks at Jean helplessly, expression raw and open and wanting.

Jean wishes he had the right words, that he could say what Marco needs to hear, be what Marco **_needs him_ ** to be.

But he’s just **_Jean_ **.  Jean who can barely hold himself straight, Jean who is too brash and too proud and wants too much.  Jean, who thinks the stars dull in comparison to Marco’s brightness, who has always never wanted Marco’s smile to fade, who loves Marco with all he is and all he has.

He’s just Jean.  

Hopefully that will be enough.

Slowly, shakily, Jean’s hands smooth over Marco’s shoulders, ignoring how his muscles tense beneath Jean’s fingers.

“Life is more than the circus,” he says.  Marco’s eyes widen, searching Jean’s face, and Jean tries his best to keep his voice level. “ **_You_ ** can be so much more, Marco.”

Marco’s lips part in a gasp but Jean continues, letting his heart take over for what feels like the first time in his life.

He swallows.  “I....Marco….W-We could be so much more.”  He’s not sure why he keeps tacking Marco’s name into all of his sentences - maybe it’s a need to remind himself that Marco is here, safe - or maybe it’s a need to feel those consonants on the back of his tongue and against the press of his lips.  “Marco, I’m - ”

Jean’s name is a breath - a gasp of air - and Marco surges forward.  His lips are cold, frigid from the rain, and Jean can barely feel the press of them before Marco is already pulling back.

Rushed apologies follow the shock and Marco is shuffling away, trying to shake out of Jean’s arms.  Jean’s brain struggles to catch up, but _oh_ , when it does.

Jean’s fingers are quick but clumsy as he fists into the front of Marco’s shirt.  Marco stumbles at the force, doe-eyes wide and wanting, and Jean doesn’t hesitate when they crash into each other.

He kisses Marco fervently, sloppy but sure, and forces past the lingering scent of smoke to something sweeter and gentler.  Something inherently Marco. The tension coiled in his gut eases when Marco’s hand comes up and rests against his neck.

Marco’s lips are soft but firm and Jean is reeling as Marco’s thumb caresses his skin.  Their mouths open naturally with the next kiss and Jean sighs into it, his fingers twisting in the damp fabric of Marco’s shirt.  Jean has no idea what it’s like to be ravished, but he’s sure this must be close to it. Marco kisses with a slow, burning heat, his other arm snaking around Jean’s waist to pull him ever closer.  The angle shifts and Jean tenderly threads his fingers through Marco’s hair, tugging gently on the wet strands, and delights when it pulls a low groan from Marco’s throat.

Marco pulls back with a shaky exhale of Jean’s name, eyes glassy and cheeks flushed, and Jean can’t stop the stretch of his smile.  He feels dizzy, lightheaded in the best way, then Marco shivers from the cold air blowing through the cracks in the window.

Jean chuckles, shrugging out of his soaked through vest.  He hangs it lazily over his arm before draping it along the back of the desk chair.  The breath Marco sucks in is sharp and Jean doesn’t catch on where it stems from until he turns back around and sees the flushed, rapt look on Marco’s face.  He looks just as intense as he did the day Jean first wore this outfit, pupils blown and dark and and burning, and Jean shivers for a completely different reason.

“Come on,” he admonishes.  Jean steps into Marco’s space and even through the chill of the early autumn breeze, Jean can feel Marco’s warmth roll off his body in waves.  Marco watches him, breath stuck in his throat, and Jean has never been more conscious of the heat pooling in his abdomen in his life.

Slowly, Jean brings his hand down to play with the hem of Marco’s dress shirt, fingers barely reaching his hip.  He draws his hand up, the shirt pooling around his wrist, and dragging upward.

“You’ll catch your death,” Jean murmurs.

Something in Marco flips. The groan he lets out is  practically inhuman and his hands are immediately on Jean’s hips, fingers making quick work of the sash around his waist before tossing it haphazardly to the ground.

With itching, shivering fingers, Jean makes quick work of Marco’s dress shirt, letting it slide off Marco’s broad shoulders to join his sash on the floor.  Marco’s hands are hot against Jean’s bare back, teeth scraping Jean’s pulse as he pulls him close. He’s breathing Jean in with every lingering touch to his skin, every caress of his fingers, and Jean doesn’t hesitate to lead them both to the bed, spreading himself on the sheets as he wiggles out of what remains of his clothes.

Reality crashes down hard, with the sudden cool breeze that brushes across his exposed skin.  His cock is shamefully full, flushed and twitching against his hip, and Marco stares at him with ravenous attention.

Marco groans, shaking his head with a laugh.  Jean wants to ask what’s so funny, already flushed with embarrassment, but then Marco removes his pants and underwear with one fluid movement and Jean has to shudder with the excitement that spikes through him.

 **_Wow._ **  Well.

With a smile, Marco leans down and captures Jean’s lips in a slow, deep kiss that leaves them both longing.

“Please,” Marco breathes, caressing the soft skin below Jean’s ear, “Let me have you.”  

Jean’s chest swells with warmth and he reaches up, smoothing his thumbs over the freckles that decorate Marco’s cheeks.

“Dummy,” he whispers, “I’m already yours.”

Hands are suddenly everywhere and nowhere at once.  Running up Jean’s sides, down his arms. Marco worms his way between Jean’s legs, knees beneath Jean’s thighs, and the trailing of his fingers against Jean’s bare skin leave sparks in their wake.

Marco kisses Jean like he was born to.  Jean gasps around his tongue, digs his feet into the bed and uses it as leverage, rolling his hips up against Marco’s experimentally.  The friction is immediate. Jean’s gut curls at the sound it pulls from Marco’s throat and heat settles in Jean’s navel, cock twitching against Marco’s hip.

It’s **_euphoric_ **.  Jean does it again.

Their lips move faster, a back and forth, a wide open press that feels filthy and good all the same.

Marco’s hands find purchase on Jean’s hips and shift the angle, slotting their hips together like they were made to fit.

Jean makes a noise low in his throat, eyes closing, head tipping back as Marco rocks their bodies together once, twice -

Marco noses up into Jean’s shoulders, rolls his hips, and Jean’s back arches as their cocks slide together, stealing the breath from his lungs.  His whole body is burning, thighs twitching from the heat and the friction, and it all drives him closer.

“M…Marco,” Jean exhales, “ _Ah_ , Marco - ”

Marco curses, snapping his hips, and their tips align perfectly, both of them exhaling in shaky moans.

“ **_Jean_ **,”  Marco’s voice is raspy and dark, quivering against Jean’s throat, “I...You have no idea.”  The arm braced by Jean’s head shivers, “I‘ve thought...thought about this so many times - ”

Jean groans, grabbing the back of Marco’s head to slot their lips together in a bruising kiss.  His other hand reaches down between them and wraps around both of their leaking cocks, pumping them in time with Marco’s feverish thrusts.  

Marco chokes on a whine, teeth digging into Jean’s bottom lip.

It all hits Jean in a hard wash of light and heat.  His gut makes that final twist, toes tingling, eyelids fluttering shut as his mouth drops into an open, wordless moan.  He comes hard and fast, spilling over his hand, and Marco whispers soft encouragements between the gentle kisses he presses to Jean’s skin.

When some semblance of reality returns, Jean realizes Marco is panting against his shoulder, gasping incoherently.  He slides his hand from Marco’s shoulder to his hair and pulls, wrenching a hard moan out of Marco. He watches as Marco’s eyes roll shut at the next tug, body beautifully slick with sweat.

Marco comes with a final thrust against Jean’s hip, body going rigid and hard as Jean milks him through his orgasm.

There’s kisses and laughter as they wind down, disbelieving grins and lingering fingers, and after Marco cleans them up Jean has the best sleep he’s had in years, curled up against Marco’s chest.

* * *

Jean is roused the next morning by the gentle pattering of rain and the drag of long, loving, calloused fingers against his hip.  Warmth floods Jean’s veins, culminates in the depths of his chest, and he smiles before he even opens his eyes.

Marco is propped up on his elbow, hair a mess of cowlicks, but he smiles at Jean just like he did all those years ago.  (How he’s **_always_ ** looked at him, Jean realizes with a skip of his heart, Marco has **_always_ ** looked at him like this.)

They don’t need words, don’t need the pleasantries, but Marco asks the question he must already know the answer to.

“Didja mean it?” he murmurs.

“Mean what?” Jean replies cheekily.  Marco snorts and pinches Jean’s stomach for his troubles.  
  
“What you said last night,” he extrapolates, “About how life could be more with you.”

Marco’s eyes are shining, expression open and warm and so painfully hopeful, and Jean knows he could spend the rest of his time on this earth doing nothing more than counting the freckles that decorate Marco’s skin, and it would be the best life he could ever ask for.

“Didja mean it?” Marco asks again.

Jean slides his hand under the covers, entwining his fingers with the ones wandering down his side, and pulls them up to his lips.  The kiss he presses to Marco’s knuckles makes Marco sigh, and Jean looks up at him from beneath his eyelashes.

“Only if you’ll have me,” he whispers.

Marco beams, and Jean swears he can see sunlight shimmering through the gold of his irises.

* * *

The years are not kind, but Marco and Jean combat it with overwhelming kindness to each other.  It takes countless odd jobs, sleepless nights, and pestering of old mentors to grab a plot of land small enough to accommodate their fledgling life, but it is definitely worth it.

Marco’s dream was always worth it to Jean.

They get something in the countryside - simple and manageable - with just enough room for Titan to trot around like he owns everything his aging eyes see.

(He does, but neither Jean nor Marco will admit they let that friesian get away with anything.)

Titan is joined shortly by Maria and Sina - twin stock pintos that are identical in every way but temperament - and Orn - an appaloosa that Jean affectionately claims is catatonic.

The fresh air does them a load of good, and Jean almost forgets what the smog of the city smelled like, what the bare cobbles felt like under his worn down feet.  There are no more dirty streets in their lives, no more stained tents.

The days not spent tending to the horses are spent tending to each other and every night after the horses are stabled and resting, Jean finds solace in the trail of Marco’s fingers and the caress of his lips.

Happy.

 ** _Yeah_** , Jean decides, **_I can live with_** **_happy_**.

**Author's Note:**

> Words cannot describe how beyond excited I was to get MonoclePony as my giftee. I have loved and adored Lars' work for ages - No Reins was a huge inspiration for me when I was starting out and I've been obsessing over Someplace Like Bolivia for what feels like months now. I remember reading Searching for Superman and needing to lay down after every chapter, because everything felt so raw and so real that I would need to take a break from it. Lars has a knack for setting and emotion, and the intensity at which she weaves her stories is beyond breathtaking. I could read Lars' works for days and never be tired of it. If, for some reason, you HAVEN'T read any of her stories yet, this is my plea that YOU SHOULD READ LARS' STUFF. RIGHT NOW.
> 
> Lars is, by far, my absolute favorite writer in this fandom. This fic doesn't do a lick of justice in portraying how much I adore Lars, but I hope it's sufficient for a Christmas present. 
> 
> I mentioned that I had a secret, second gift and I certainly do. I know how impossible it can be to attract attention for a fic in such a visual world, so Lars, my second present is [this](https://drive.google.com/file/d/1CRXVwwsmIn8H4ganfss2wgMgqvoqpJjQ/view?usp=sharing). Please use it however you see fit, and if you ever want any visual promos for any of your other fics, just let me know. I would be more than happy to make it for you. 
> 
> Thank you for existing, and thank you so much for sharing your wonderful words with this fandom. <3 (Also thank you for recommending Water for Elephants - it was BEAUTIFUL. )
> 
> If you liked this fic, you can cry Jeanmarco with me on [tumblr](http://pilindiel.tumblr.com/) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/pilindiel).


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